


We never shined so brightly

by ctimene



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Broken Friendship, Emphasis on bitter, Everybody Lives, F/M, Flash Sideways Verse, Flashbacks, M/M, Songfic but for jazz, That scene from La La Land basically, What-If, Written to music, though so I'm not a monster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 10:15:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11575986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ctimene/pseuds/ctimene
Summary: Years on from the end of Nelson and Murdock, Foggy and Matt understand what might have been.The final scene of La La Land, Daredevilised.





	We never shined so brightly

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a weird experiment in trying to fit fic to music, and I’m not totally happy with it, but I am done, so...
> 
> I wrote it to try to fit the emotional beats of the story to the music from the final scene of La La Land (Epilogue/The End - [Spotify link](https://open.spotify.com/album/5p0H50uFCdWTpLY640HoPc)), as well as nicking the premise, and lots of it will make absolutely no sense if you haven’t heard it. Hopefully if you listen along while reading, it should fit.

The courtroom is full to bursting. Press and public and anyone else who can cadge a seat. By Foggy’s count, it’s the fourth ‘Trial of the Century’ he’s defended. His suit sits sharply on his shoulders. Vigilantism is an in-demand specialism.

Jessica looks small in the dock and large in her orange jumpsuit where it stretches obscenely over her belly.  Before he stands, Foggy glances at the public gallery, where Luke is sitting, as he has every day of the trial, Danny Rand beside him. There’s someone new on his other side, though. Well, someone old. 

Matt wears heroism well these days. It fits him in a way the man Foggy loved, too nice, too guilty, didn’t. There’s a cut across his lip, and his glasses don’t quite conceal a black eye. Foggy reminds himself it’s not on him to care anymore, even if he can’t help but notice. 

The judge, Mendoza, a decent cantankerous bastard, invites him to begin, but Foggy waits a moment. He can feel the expectation rise around him, the rustle of umbrellas, the pause in conversations. He looks around the court again, from where Karen is avoiding his gaze to Jess and Colleen and. Not. Matt.

Foggy gets to his feet and the sounds of the court die away, ready for his performance. All he can hear is the rain outside, drumming down slightly faster than his own heart. He had a speech, he knows he had a speech, but another glance towards the gallery, to Luke and Danny and  _ Matt _ , bold as brass alongside the other Defenders and, well-

Improvisation was always Matt’s strong point, but it’s been years. Foggy’s had time to practice.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury-”

A pause. A turn. Sharp turns are good, prime the jury for theatrics, but there’s something bigger here, something in the rhythm that thrums in his pulse, the squeak and tap of his expensive shoes on the wood floor, and the way Matt’s face is turned to him, listening to their old refrain-

And it’s five years ago, Castle’s case, Foggy’s heart fluttering high in his chest as Karen fidgets with their papers and both of them avoid saying “Where is Matt?” seconds before he slides in beside them with an easy smile and no blood or bruising to speak of. 

He lifts his eyebrows and Foggy has to smile back before they stand, take the sunlit courtroom as their stage, all clever footwork and smart words, Matt’s cane a counterpoint to every point scored. They dance rings around the prosecution, sweep between the jury and the judge with their defence. Matt is dazzling and Foggy’s not far behind, falling into a rhythm, a partnership, he’d almost forgotten they had.

Frank’s a stubborn bass note in proceedings, but they work around it, a contrapuntal melody that gets the jury nodding in time with their beat, in time with their argument, in time with a verdict that drains the pressure from the room. In time. There’s time. 

Out down the courthouse steps and it’s an elegant slide to Josie’s for the celebration. Frank melts away into the shadows and Foggy can’t say he’s not grateful as he twirls Karen into Matt’s waiting arms and receives her back again, the three of them laughing their way through shots of pool and shots of eel and shots at each other, flirtatious and teasing, that don’t go anywhere beyond the bar, not when Karen’s still sending looks into the darkness and Foggy’s not quite brave and Matt, dear Matt, is still smiling guilelessly, like their hearts aren’t beating the 2/4 rhythm of his name.

They slide out of the door and into their office, where Karen has to answer three phones at once as Matt sees a happy client to the door and Foggy takes another into the conference room, a choreographed routine that shouldn’t squeeze into their tiny space but does, like the walls are making room for them. 

The clients keep coming in with heavy shoulders and leaving with smiles; they eat lasagna packed with virtue at their tiny formica table amid printouts of adverts for bigger office spaces; Foggy crosses paths with Becky Blake in a light-filled atrium and starts ringing the listings with elevators and a third office; and it seems mad, utterly mad, but when they check Karen’s spreadsheets the numbers add up. 

Of course, it’s not really Karen’s spreadsheet  — she hands it off with her filing system and her keys when she officially resigns, but she doesn’t  _ go _ anywhere, bright and happy and writing stories in Foggy’s poky office, in Matt’s, because Ellison knows it’s worth gives her enough room to do her job. They start framing her front pages for the walls, swooping scoops in red, white and black, and if Foggy occasionally slips in the odd splash on Daredevil without a Page byline, it’s not like Matt will ever notice.

They’re running through Hell’s Kitchen to a new office space when Hogarth taps his shoulder, and with Karen tugging his hand and Matt smiling to himself it’s so easy to say no with a good grace, to keep moving with another day of sun shining down-

The sun always shines in New York now, even in autumn, in thick snow, through the cherry blossom, through a thousand days and nights of smiles.

He finds himself with a beer in hand in Matt’s apartment and walks — feet so light it’s almost floating — up the smoky black of the roof exit to watch, well, he’s not sure until he sees it: 

Matt and Elektra, sparring, so slowly, turning into each other and out again with limbs sharp as blades, only barely avoiding cutting each other to ribbons — but avoiding it, and that’s what matters. Neither is here to bruise, or bleed, just dance, without a hint of threat to the dark they slice through, glowing from within like stars. Elektra is still all edges and knives, but bevelled now — she holds herself with a new grip, a self-control that speaks to certainty, rooted in herself, in the elegance of her wrist, the tightness of each kick. 

There’s romance to their dance, and there’s kindness, and Elektra moves like a ballerina, and though neither of them acknowledge him, the ink on his shirt cuffs and condensation on his beer a little too real for the beauty of their war, they know he’s there and allow it. Allow it because, they all realise, gently, softly, the swell of strings beneath them, around them, as they twist past each other, still not slicing, still not touching, isn’t hopeful, but sad, until Elektra spins into a shadow and vanishes, so abruptly Foggy has to catch his breath.

Matt doesn’t. Off across the rooftops, Danny beside him one moment, Luke the next, across a Kitchen that still sparks with sirens, screaming like trumpets, sometimes, but far less. There’s companionship to it, watching Jessica and Luke and Colleen and Danny. They synchronise and improvise well: Jessica kicks down a wall and Matt and Danny slide past her into the gap, their training complementing each other, as Luke and Colleen fight back to back, with no fear her sword could harm him. When it’s done Danny goes for a high five, and though no one indulges him, there’s a smile on every face — yes, even Jess. Foggy’s not there, obviously, but he sees it nonetheless, from his rooftop, from his mind, sees it in the rarity of Matt’s frowns and the scars allowed to fade, the wounds allowed to heal. He doesn’t need to be a part of it, just watches them play their way through the city.

But then Matt’s up, off by himself in the city that loves him almost as much as he loves it, up, up, past gargoyles and their human equivalents, to its highest point, where a thousand lights he can’t see shine back at him and only the solid rope of Foggy’s gaze on him reminds him of the ground. New York has no set rhythm, no single style, but when it glimmers and rustles and holds Daredevil suspended like this, its heart beats with his. For Foggy it’s a breathless privilege to watch, and wait, and gasp as Matt leaps, hanging in the air like a high note-

Somehow it’s no surprise at all when Matt lands in a suit, a proper suit, bow tie and crisp black jacket, and takes his hand. It’s even less shocking to waltz right off the roof. The stars are warm beneath their feet as they rise, past a white lump of cloud and lace that resolves itself into Candace, laughing as she flings her bouquet in their direction and loses her veil in the process. 

There’s a familiar echo to all of this, and Foggy remembers Elektra, and romance, and sadness, but Matt’s hand is firm in his, firm and determined, and the stars hold them up together. Up again, past another cloud of rumpled silk sheets, though the whisper of their softness is nothing to the feather light touch Matt uses to tilt Foggy’s chin up, like every old movie heartthrob Foggy secretly adored. 

Memories flicker like projections on the clouds below them — Karen handing them copies of her book, her signature smooth and practised under the dedication on the third page; Madame Gao collapsing into a plume of her own powder, choking her like smoke; sipping champagne in Trish’s stunning apartment as Jessica flatly refuses to wear a wedding dress but gamely dons the $2 veil Foggy bought at a drugstore for her hen night; the hangover the next day, curled around Matt and a cup of coffee, insisting he loves the drink and the man equally, and letting him hear the lie in his heart; walking into the courthouse on any afternoon and lingering by the license clerk; a ring nestled in white satin.

They sink to Matt’s roof, to Matt’s apartment — their apartment, softened with Foggy’s jacket slung over a bar stool, blinds to block out the billboard’s pink glow, and then open to let in the morning light. Foggy scrambles eggs and Matt wanders out of the bedroom, hair mussed from spending a night with his head on a pillow instead of crammed into a helmet. It’s morning, so there’s no words needed — or possible — but they move together with ease, at home in each other’s space, inches apart, as Matt teases the coffee machine to life.

Matt’s ring clinks against his mug, and Foggy, distracted  by the single note in their silent routine, gets egg on the notes for his speech, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s word-perfect — everything is word, breathe, moment-perfect. 

The present for Jessica’s shower, haphazardly wrapped, rests by the door, and they almost forget it when they leave — terrible wonderful godparents already. Hell’s Kitchen is bright and airy around them on the long, momentary walk to work, full of faces they know and faces they don’t, all friendly. 

On the steps of the courthouse Foggy straightens Matt’s tie, and Matt straightens his back, because they’ve both got big cases today, even if quite who Foggy’s defending escapes him. It’s on the tip of his tongue as he walks inside, alone now, suddenly, where is Matt-

“-My client has acted not only within the letter of the law, but also its spirit. To protect the vulnerable. And that, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is the end of the matter.”

His eyes are stinging, but Foggy’s too professional to let it get into his voice. The jury are silent. Jessica sits a little straighter, give him the nod, no trace of friendliness in her eyes but a respect that’s good enough, he supposes. Karen’s pen lifts from her page, but she still doesn’t look at him. Mendoza’s got an eyebrow up, as if he’s waiting for an encore, or an objection from the prosecution, but the weasels on this case don’t have the stomach for it. They sit and they squirm and Foggy can feel, over the exhaustion in his bones, that he’s won.

Well. ‘Won’.

He risks a look.

Matt’s attention is fixed on him. There’s the edge of a smile, and then, in the distance, but close enough that even Foggy can hear it, a siren. He waits a beat, maybe two, then nods his head towards the door. 

Matt’s to his feet before he can blink, slips through the stunned court without being noticed. Foggy sinks into his chair, the hard oak almost comfortable beneath him, and heaves a breath, even as in his mind’s eye he sees his old friend, his older love, removing the tie no one bothered to straighten in a rush towards his next fight.

The defence rests.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I am on tumblr [here](http://ctimenefic.tumblr.com/) if you want to yell at me through a different medium


End file.
